Splendid Isolation is the first novel by Yehuda Macbeth written at the crossover point of the 1999 to 2000 millennia.
The novel documents two weeks in the life of an unnamed central character, all the insight in the world into the stream of consciousness playing out in his head but no time to even mention his name. Love and loss, youth passing and times past: the themes are universal, the intimate portrayal told at profound and engaging pace.
“The more we study the more we discover our ignorance.” — Percy Bysshe Shelley
I can feel the sadness hangover. The little death, fucking pretentious, sensible French. Why wouldn’t you deify libido if you could? It’s a boredom antidote. They don’t go for depression and ADHD so much in France. But Cialis is free. I think I’ve spotted a consistency. Passionate people, the French. Fall in love and sure fall far. I’ve tried to live in that compelling utopia. It was alright when in the mood or drunk enough, but maybe I’m too autistic to love and fuck like a dirty horny Frenchman. Doesn’t matter how beautiful the attraction or how perversely vanity-tickling (at least as nostalgia): the sheer energy of passion playing out gets tiring and eventually infantilizing. To me. I know this must be a fucked up way to see it. But there damn you, look, emotions are trickling in and I can’t do that right now, don’t want to do it, it’s too much effort… will you marry me? Fuck this, I’m going to cook up.Splendid Isolation